LV Equations
by miss skinny love
Summary: How exactly did Voldemort encounter Nagini, who would go on to host a sliver of his soul?


_Written for:_ QLFC Round 13

 _Team:_ Kenmare Kestrels

 _Position:_ Chaser 2

 _Prompts:_

(EXTRA) Nargle: Write about someone who is outlandish, either in their way of dressing, or their personality, or their manner of speaking, or taste in music, etc — i.e. someone with a **very unique** taste / **personality.**

(song) Everybody Hates Me by The Chainsmokers

(object) kaleidoscope

(action) getting down on one's knee/s

.

.

.

I think what might have drawn Voldemort to Nagini is that they are both very similar creatures. Both hated and reviled and seen as evil; both driven by basic instincts — to survive and perhaps even to destroy — and both predatory in nature. I think Voldemort is quite unique in nature. It takes a certain type of soul to rise as he did; to use and discard life as it were nothing — no matter if that life is a human child or a starving dog or a house-elf. He was unique in his drive, in his instinct, in his cruelty and his odd obsessions. When he was a wraith, I'm sure he talked to himself a lot. I wonder what he thought about.

.

.

.

 _Lotka–Volterra Equations_

definition (basic): often used to describe the dynamics of biological systems wherein two species interact — one as prey and the other as predator.

.

.

.

LV Equations.

Lord Voldemort Equations.

 _._

 _._

 _._

 _Yeah, **let's do it again** but, uh, this time, uh, let's go full **psycho**_

 _Yeah, I just want to drink tequila with my friends_

 _She said she cheated 'cause she's tryna get ahead_

 _The more I read it, yeah, **the more I take offence**_

 _I'm so defeated, **I can't get outside my head**_

 _I post a picture of myself 'cause I'm lonely_

 _Everyone knows what I look like_

 ** _Not even one of them knows me_**

 _Yeah, I just want to drink tequila with my friends_

 _I'm so defeated I just want this shit to end_

 _So I walk into the club like, **everybody hates me**_

 _I walk into the club like, everybody hates me_

 _ **I'm talkin' to myself, shit, now they think I'm crazy**_

 _I walk into the club like, everybody hates me (everybody hates me)_

 _Like everybody hates **me**_

— The Chainsmokers

.

.

.

What is he? He does not know. He is made of vapour and rage and the barest hints of humanity, like the sprinkling of sugar over burnt cake. He floats, as repugnant as the thought is: Voldemort floats.

He drifts through the Albanian forest — he is a wraith; a shadow of what he once was. It is an awful feeling, being unable to breathe, but he bears it, because he must. Time is an odd thing to him; as if it is vapour, just as he is … just as intangible and inconsistent. And although he does not know what the time is, or how much has passed, he is possessed by intense urgency.

He is nothing — less than nothing — and this fact is everything to him. He is held to this mortal plane by Horcruxes alone. Without them, his vaporous spirit would disintegrate.

A shudder — can he call it that? He feels he must — rushes through him. He is Voldemort.

Once he had been Tom Marvolo Riddle. That was once. He had carved a name for himself; he had gathered followers like old men collect debt; men and women had got down on their knees before him and had done so _gladly_ and _happily_ and _subserviently;_ he had risen and ruled, however briefly. To be this wraith was torture.

He inflicted torture. He did not bear it.

Rage burned hot within him. This was the fault of the child. Potter.

There is a flash of activity to his left, and he turns his senses there. He stretches out, languidly, curiously. There — another flash of activity —

It is a mutt. Its eyes gleam red in the dark. He can see its ribs, bulging out and straining against scarred flesh. It appears a wild thing: teeth sharp, claws wicked, tongue lolling.

He inches closer, pushing his vaporous form through the air, though it is exhausting, in a sense.

The dog snaps its head up and growls. The growls are thick and thunderous, like tumultuous thunderclouds. Voldemort is pleased. The mutt is a savage thing — a deadly thing.

It is facing him.

He presses closer, a mere foot or two away.

The dog's ears flatten against its skull. It barks — a high, painful sound.

Voldemort strikes. He shoves himself into the dog, and the dog — the mutt — it shoves (?) back, but it is weak and he is strong. It presents no challenge to him, and within seconds he is more than wraith: he is dog, and the scent of earth in his snout is a balm to his senses. He pricks his ears — there is something in the grass, and it is dangerous, and he snarls savagely — he is Voldemort! — but then that _something_ strikes.

Teeth sink into his jugular, and he howls with the pain of it. His jaw works wildly and his eyes roll, but the world is slowing even as his heart speeds up.

It is a snake.

He barks, nails scrabbling at dirt and sliding off smooth scales, but it is no use. He can feel the venom working against him. Instincts blare insistently, telling him to _run,_ to escape, for this is a foe that he cannot conquer. Voldemort gives a savage twist; one last _yelp_ that resonates with terrified resignation; and then shoves out of the mutt. He hovers there, some intangible thing again. His world becomes dull again, but he can still appreciate the sight of the dead dog. Frothy drool mixes with blood at the mouth. Bright eyes stare unmovingly. And that chest — starved in life and now in death — is as still as stone.

Voldemort turns his attention to the snake. It is a thing to behold. Long and thick and strong, it is coiled danger and striking beauty. Its eyes are flat yellow, and its scales glitter in the weak sunlight, casting strange colours about. It reminds him of when he was younger — when he'd stolen Timmy's kaleidoscope — it had been so enchanting, almost like magic … Muggle magic ... but then … then … Abruptly, a sharp feeling (bitterness? pain? resentment?) lances through him. Muggles brought only suffering and pain. They were a virus; a plague.

That sharp feeling sours, and he pushes forward and tries to —

He wants to —

But the snake, it —

It pushes back, with far more force than the mutt. It says: _I am not prey. I am predator._ It has no words, only intent, and that intent shines with rage. It is just like him, he realises, and stops pushing. He can break it. It is nothing, compared to him. Just a snake.

But this snake … this dangerous snake … oh, he admires it — far more than the mutt before it. Its spirit had been strong — full of feminine fury and predatory excitement.

Yellow eyes inspect their surroundings cautiously, and then the snake begins to gorge itself on the dog.

Voldemort stares. He will have this snake — if not in spirit, then in body.

It is hated and reviled, just as he is.

He will call it Nagini, from the Sanskrit word "nāga", meaning snake, for that is what it is — every last scale, every muscle, every hiss … it is Snake, just as he is Lord.

This is only right.


End file.
